


But here in our hollow we fuse like a family

by livenudebigfoot



Series: Lyrics Stolen from a Song About Rentboys [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Awkward Sexual Situations, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s designated as ‘specialty,’ which means he gets paid a little more than most, but his customers are weirder. This, he supposes, is give and take. That’s how Reese tries to spin it, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But here in our hollow we fuse like a family

**Author's Note:**

> I walked into Brooks Brothers last weekend and saw a tie with tiny scorpions stitched on it. I described it to my beta.
> 
> Somehow, this caused a prostitute AU to happen.

1.

He’s designated as ‘specialty,’ which means he gets paid a little more than most, but his customers are weirder. This, he supposes, is give and take. That’s how Reese tries to spin it, anyway.

“Cut the shit, Reese. Is he a fat man or a dick man?”

He gets both. He prefers the guys who buy him for his dick. Not just ‘cause he’s kind of proud of it, though he is. Mainly because they like to worship it, mouth at it, so whatever winds up happening, he usually feels pretty good by the end. Those guys don’t try to hurt him.

The guys who buy him because he’s fat, though, they like to hurt him. They like to pinch at him, grab big handfuls of him and twist, slap at his ass or his stomach to get a ripple effect going. Or sometimes they don’t lay a finger on him in a bad way; they just lay in to him with words.

Mostly, he gets bought because he’s fat. Figures.

Reese, across the table from him, toys with his scorpion-patterned black tie and tries not to look Fusco in the eye. “Both, in a way. He wants a big dick with no ego. Not his exact words. He said ‘well-endowed.’” Reese smiles a little.

Fusco snorts. “Cute. Is he new at this?”

Reese shrugs. “I’ve never seen him before, but he seems to know his way around. I’d say he keeps things quiet. He’s loaded; he can afford to.”

Fusco kind of likes the sound of that. He likes quiet. He definitely likes money. “Hope you’re overcharging him,” he says.

“Of course.”

“Then we’re set.”

They’re not set, really. Fusco knows it because Reese is still playing with his tie, and Reese isn’t big on fidgeting. There’s something on his mind. He sits back in his chair, waits for bad news, but Reese doesn’t seem to be volunteering any.

“What?” Fusco asks, finally. “What’s wrong with him? It’s not a shit thing, is it?” Reese likes to tell him that he’d make more money if he’d agree to do shit things. Fusco likes to tell Reese to fuck off.

“No,” Reese says, “no, this one’s a neat freak. He wants to tie you up.”

Oh. This old sticking point again. They’ve had this conversation before, and because Fusco gave in a few times, they’ll keep having it until one of them dies. “I don’t like not being able to defend myself,” he says.

“Lionel, he’s not going to hurt you. He’s harmless. He’s a polite little guy with glasses and a limp.”

“Then what the fuck does he want to tie me up for? If he’s so nice, tell me that.”

“Jesus, Lionel, I don’t know. I just know that he brought it up right away when I asked if anything funny was going to happen. Said it right out, black and white, that he just wanted to tie you up during, nothing else.”

“Just ‘cause he said it to you doesn’t mean he won’t do it to me.”

Reese sighs. “I’ll be right there. I’ll be listening the whole time. I won’t let him hurt you.”

Fusco’s thinking about it. If this guy is what Reese says he is, Fusco likes the sound of him. He likes the idea of a quiet, rich, polite client who won’t hurt him and only wants one harmless, weird thing. If that’s what he really is. “How rich is he, do you think?” he asks.

“The suit he wore to the meeting looked like it cost over $2,000,” Reese says. “And it didn’t look like his best, either. He was comfortable in that thing. If you’re still hunting for the kind that takes you to nice places and buys you things, this might be the one, Lionel.”

He’s not, really. But he needs the money and if this guy’s on the level, it might mean he could drop some of his more vicious clients in favor of this one.

“I’ll meet with him,” he says. “But if anything starts to go wrong...”

“I’ll be there.”

 

2.

Fusco fiddles with his earpiece and shifts nervously. He’s sitting in the hotel bar, throwing back a quick shot of Jameson’s as preparation, and he feels underdressed. His clients mostly want to keep things on the down low, so he just dresses like he would normally, does it casual so he looks like any other guy. Nobody’s ever asked to meet in a place this nice. The guy sitting next to him at the bar has on a watch so expensive Fusco could choke.

“How are you doing?” Reese asks. He’s somewhere else in the hotel, casing out the room.

“Wishing I owned a suit,” he says, keeping his voice low and cupping his phone by his ear. “How about you?”

“I saw him go in. Another $2,000 suit. Maybe $3,000, that time. Little overnight bag. Nothing suspicious. You should come up.”

Fusco sighs, cracks his knuckles, shakes his hands out.

“He looks like he’s an okay guy, Lionel,” he says.

“What does an okay guy look like?” he asks.

Reese says, “I’ll give you that one.”

 

3.

He passes Reese in the hall on the way up and Reese stops him, looks him over, grabs his shoulders. “Should have gotten you a haircut,” he says. He reaches into the front pocket of his coat, takes out a little bottle of cologne, and pours a couple of drops onto his fingers. “Be nice to him,” he says, as he dabs the cologne behind Fusco’s ears. “I think he’s really okay, Lionel. Maybe a little shy. Make him like you so he’ll ask for you again.”

“How much are we getting for this?” he asks again, because Reese has been kind of tight-lipped about it.

Reese shakes his head. “Tell you what. While you’re in there, I want you to think of a number. As it’s going on, you tally up every cent you think it’s worth. Don’t be stingy either. Then, once you’re out, I’ll tell you how much he paid in advance.”

“Jesus. He ripped us off, didn’t he? Don’t fuck around with me.”

“No, Lionel. We did not get ripped off. Come on,” he says. “Get in there. Be nice. Be yourself, only less pissy.”

Fusco doesn’t do nice very often. He pretends to be a mean, cocky kind of guy with the ones who like his dick, and he never figured out how to be nice with the ones who just want to reenact Deliverance all over him, and they mostly don’t care if he’s nice or not. He’s wondering if maybe he should smile or something. That’d be a good idea, he thinks, if he was good-looking or if he could fake it well, but he isn’t and he can’t, so he just makes his face neutral and careful.

He finds the right door and stands before it a moment, takes a deep breath, wishes he’d had just a bit more to drink. He still has these moments, even after a few years of this. The urge to turn tail and run is still there. He closes his eyes and gets himself under control. He knocks.

There’s nothing for a bit, just the sounds of faint and delicate rustling from the other side of the door, and Fusco’s thinking maybe he should knock again, but then he hears the click of the door chain, and the door opens just slightly, revealing a long, thin stripe of gray, a buggy blue eye, and the sharp, black frame of the man’s glasses. “Are you Lionel?” he asks, and he has the flattest, most careful voice Fusco’s ever heard.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I am.”

The eye blinks, once. The door shuts and now there’s just the clicking of the man fiddling with the door chain and then it’s open again. “Please, come in,” says the client.

Fusco’s kind of disappointed because Reese said he was little and this guy, like almost everyone, is taller than him. But he gets what Reese meant; he’s kind of wasted and scrawny. Fusco could take him easy, if he had to.

He’s getting a lot of what Reese meant, actually. How this guy’s kind of funny-looking, but in a way that’s weak and sweet. How his expensive clothes aren’t flashy, just clean and neat and meticulously chosen. How he seems a little nervous, a little excited.

Fusco doesn’t trust him exactly, but he walks past him into the room and he doesn’t flinch when he hears the door close and lock automatically. “I had wine brought up,” the client says, “if you’d like.”

Fusco’s still stuck on the room, because it’s bigger than his entire apartment and it’s the only hotel room he’s ever been in that doesn’t smell like cigarettes and jizz. He can feel himself sinking into the carpet through the soles of his shoes. The bed’s almost not worth thinking about right now, because it’s huge and the bedspread’s dark, deep brown and it looks soft and okay, he’s a little excited. “I think I would,” he says, smile curling involuntarily at the corner of his mouth.

The client walks past him from where he’s been carefully locking up the door and Fusco kind of recoils a bit, because Reese mentioned a limp, but this is bad. Every step sends him careening just a little, his back and neck held terribly straight and stiff. It looks like it might be a little painful just being him. For a second, Fusco worries about hurting him, but then he remembers he’ll be tied up anyway.

The client shuffles to an end table with a metal bucket on it, damp and misty with condensation, and pulls out a bottle of wine. Red. That’s the extent of his knowledge. The client fills two small, long-stemmed glasses and hands one to Fusco, keeps the other. The bowl sits in the palm of his hand while the stem slips between his fingers.  “I hope it’s to your taste,” he says as Fusco takes a sip.

Fusco swallows. “I have no taste,” he admits.

The client smiles a little, seems to privately agree.

“You know my name,” Fusco says. “Do I get to know yours?”

He thinks for a moment. “Harold.”

“I bet.”

“It’s true,” he says, sounding the slightest bit insulted.

“Yeah, okay. Come on, guy. You had to think about it first.”

They’re standing around, wine glasses in their hands, grinning shyly at each other across the end table. For a second, Fusco feels like he’s on an actual date, and then Harold asks, “Have you been informed of what’s about to happen here?”

Fusco sets his glass down and says, “You want to tie me up and screw me.”

Harold’s eyebrows rise just a little. “That’s a way of putting it, I suppose.”

“Is that all?” Fusco asks. He’s a little on edge about that, still.

“Yes. That’s all.”

Fusco shrugs. “Then there’s no problem.”

Harold nods, breathes heavily, like maybe he was on edge about it too. “If you become uncomfortable with this arrangement at any point, please feel free to say so.”

“I’ll do that,” he says, although probably he’ll just suck it up, if it happens. But it’s putting Harold at ease, so he adds, “Do I need a safeword?”

Harold shakes his head. “I think ‘no’ will suffice.”

“Fine by me.” He picks up his wine glass, finishes it off in one long gulp. “I just need a sec,” he says, gesturing to the bathroom.

Harold says, “By all means. Take your time.”

The bathroom is basically some kind of shining, white porcelain cave, so clean it kind of makes Fusco angry. He sighs, checks his teeth in the mirror, makes sure he doesn’t stink, pops a piece of gum in his mouth. He starts the water in the sink running and murmurs, “Why does he know my name already?”

“He asked,” Reese says in his ear. “He wanted to know a lot about you. Where you’re from originally. All about what you look like, skin, eye color, hair color, height, weight. What you like in bed. Yeah,” he adds in response to Fusco’s soft and disbelieving laugh. “That one surprised me too.”

“What did you tell him?” he asks around the gum.

“That you’ve got freckles on your thighs and you like having your neck kissed.”

“God _dammit_ , Reese.”

“I’m sorry, Lionel,” he says, not sounding sorry. “No one had ever asked before. I got honest.”

He sighs, presses his forehead against the mirror.

“Get back out there,” Reese says. “It won’t be so bad. You might even have fun.”

Fusco groans, spits out his gum in the wastebasket. He turns off the water, eyes himself in the mirror. Hangdog. Angry. Humiliated. He tries to iron that out of his face.

When he steps out, Harold is sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s got his tie and cufflinks laid out on the bedside table and he’s got his vest open. His fingers are gathered at the first button on his shirt, at the hollow of his throat, and Harold colors slightly. “I hope that’s not presumptuous of me,” he says.

“No,” Fusco reassures him. “Looks like you’ve got the right idea.” He walks over to meet him, gently knocks Harold’s hands away, starts to unbutton his shirt for him. Fusco’s fingers rest incidentally against Harold’s throat and he can feel him swallow.

“May I confess something?” he asks.

“Not your priest, but go ahead.” He unbuttons that little bit further, exposes a thin, pale chest.

“I. Ah.” His eyes are firmly on Fusco’s hands. “I’ve never paid for this before.”

That explains some of it. The shyness, the nerves, the endless questions to Reese about Fusco, like a kid in the market for a first puppy.  “Nervous?” he asks.

“A little,” he admits. “I just…I may be halting. At first. Slow.”

“I don’t mind taking it slow, Harold.” He pushes the shirt off of his shoulders. “Do you want me to talk you through how these things usually go?”

“Yes. Please.”

“It’s money first, usually,” he says, helping Harold pull his arms out of the sleeves. “You put it on the dresser or the nightstand, where everyone can see it. You already paid my boss, though, so you’re golden. Then, you want to ask to see the goods. Especially if you asked for something specific, so you know you’re getting your money’s worth. So with you,” he takes Harold’s hand, presses it palm first to the front of his pants, “you’re gonna want to make sure that’s up to snuff.”

Harold gasps, snatches his hand away. “That’s fine,” he says, refusing eye contact. “I believe you.” Pink spreads across his face.

Fusco shakes his head. “Bad idea. Guys like me, we’re always trying to get guys like you to pay something for nothing.”

“Don’t tell him _that_ ,” Reese snaps.

“So you’re gonna want to check,” he continues, “every time.”

“Now?” Harold asks.

“Now’s a good time. It’s okay. I won’t be embarrassed.”

Finch, whose ears have turned bright red, says, “I assure you, you speak only for yourself,” but he’s already tugging at Fusco’s zipper with shaky, eager fingers. He’s a little slow taking the belt off, so Fusco starts to play with his wispy, gravity defying hair just to have something to do with his hands. That seems to calm him down a little, so Fusco makes a note of it. He’s scratching gently at the back of Harold’s head when cool, dry fingers slide around his dick and start to trace up and down the length of it.

He shuts his eyes tight, tries to just feel it and think of something good so he doesn’t have to try to pop a pill when Harold’s not looking. “What do you think?” he asks. “Did you get what you paid for?”

Harold says, very quietly, “I believe I’ve been drastically undercharged,” and Fusco has to laugh at that. Harold’s thumb slides up to rest just beneath the head of his dick and Fusco can feel his pulse there, feels the whole white, neat hand grow warm. “What happens now?” he asks. Fusco looks down just in time to catch a hungry light in his eye.

Fusco pulls a spool of condoms from his pocket, wrapped in black plastic with the XL prominent, because it makes his clients feel more like they’re getting what they pay for, even though he can wear the normal ones just fine. He presses them into Harold’s hand. “Just so long as I’m wearing one of these when it happens, anything you want.”

Harold nods slowly. “Get undressed.”

He doesn’t hesitate, pulls his shirt off quickly, wonders if he should be making a show out of this, but Harold isn’t even looking at him, he’s just fiddling with a pile of the hotel hand towels, folding them into long, thick strips. That’s kind of a relief. He hates it when they watch.

Once he’s down to nothing, Harold looks up finally and gives him a quick, shy once-over. He pats the bedspread beside him and Fusco sits down, tilts toward him expectantly. Harold bends painfully, begins to fiddle with the bag, takes out a few lengths of flexible black rope.  “Cotton,” he says, a shiver in his voice. “Strong, but easy on skin.” He makes eye contact for the first time. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with this?”

 _No, no, no, I’m not._ “You’re paying me to be.”

“That’s not quite the same thing.”

He sighs. “It’s fine,” he says. “I know what I’m getting into.”

Harold seems reassured, but his looks are still fast and worried. He holds out a hand and Fusco takes it, fast and confident because he just wants to get into this so he’s not so nervous. Harold takes one of the folded towels and wraps it around his wrist, starts to tie the rope around it. “Padding,” he explains, and Fusco could kiss him, but that’s extra.

The hotel towels go around his wrists and ankles as thick, white, fluffy cuffs, and he’s never felt hotel anything that wasn’t thin and scratchy, so this is all new. His wrists wind up at either end of the same rope, looped through the rungs of the headboard. His ankles are tied to separate legs of the bed, forcing his legs apart, and Harold sits between them, admiring his handiwork.

“Resting comfortably?” he asks, and Fusco, to his surprise, is. He nods and Harold puts a tentative hand on his thigh.

“Then. Ah.” His fingertips roam unsteadily, connecting dots on the pale, freckled skin, and Fusco smiles a little at that. “I suppose we can begin.” His hand curls around Fusco’s dick and Fusco closes his eyes, just tries to feel.

One thing he notices is that Harold is pretty good at this. He has strong, clever hands and he pays attention, finds the things that make Fusco’s breath quicken and exploits them for all they’re worth. Harold spits hot in his palm at some point, and this is all pretty good.

“Having fun?” Reese asks, and Fusco must be breathing louder than he thought, but he guesses that’s good because if Reese can hear him, Harold can. “This guy’s a keeper, isn’t he? Talk back to him if he tries again. He wants to. He can tell you’re nervous.”

Harold takes his hand away, and Fusco cries out miserably, pushes into the empty air for the space of a long moment. “Sorry,” Harold says, sounding just a shade pleased with himself for once. “I didn’t mean to tease.” He licks the palm of his hand and starts to touch him again, both hands this time, and at this point, staying hard is no longer an issue.

“Jesus,” Fusco mutters, tilting his head as far back into the pillow as he can go. Usually he counts cracks in the ceiling, but there aren’t any, so he settles for just staring into the smooth white expanse as Harold’s right hand strokes up and down the length of him while his left hand glides over his balls and the fingertips come to rest just behind them, rubbing gently.

He hasn’t had to worry about coming early in a pretty long time; his clients don’t care if he likes what’s happening and even if he does get close, all he has to do is think about what he’s doing for a second and then he’s back in the game. This time, he thinks, it might be a problem.

“This is easier than I thought it would be,” Harold’s saying.

Fusco swallows hard, remembers Reese’s advice, asks, “Yeah?” because he can’t think of anything better.

“Well, I assumed that with a penis this size, you’d have difficulty maintaining an erection.” Fusco lifts his head and peers at Harold, whose impassive, matter-of-fact face slips into a faintly embarrassed grin. “I. Sorry, that wasn’t a slight against you, I just. Medically. Look, it’s a fact. There’s more to…” He’s blushing now. “…More to fill.”

Fusco’s head falls back again as he starts to laugh helplessly under his breath while thinking, _Shit, I hope he doesn’t think I’m making fun of him_ , but Harold’s laughing too, breathless and near silent. He keeps wanting to reassure him because that’s what he’s almost trained to do, “You’re fine,” “That’s okay,” “Keep going,” but he just can’t because he’s laughing too hard to get the words out.

Harold gradually falls forward, leaning his head against Fusco’s stomach, body wracked with suppressed giggles, and starts to jerk him off again.

“It can take me a while,” Fusco admits, taking deep breaths, wishing he had a free hand to wipe his eyes. “But you’re good at this, Harold, you’re – ngggggh.” He’s cut off when Harold licks him, a soft, warm flick of tongue against the shaft. “Condom,” he gasps, “condom now, if you’re gonna do that.”

“Sorry,” Harold says. He starts fiddling with the packaging. “Wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay,” Fusco sighs, “only, you probably shouldn’t mess around for too long because, Harold, I’m having some trouble keeping it together here.”

“ _Nice_ ,” Reese says, approvingly. Then, “Wait. Really, Lionel?”

Harold finally gets the condom out and, fingers damp with spit and spermicide, puts it over the head of Fusco’s cock and rolls it down over him. His smile is sweetly self-deprecating when he says, “Why do I get the sense that you’ve said that before?”

“No, really,” Fusco says, because he’s a multi-tasker.

“Lionel,” Reese says firmly, “if you come early, I’m going to sell your ass to the meanest, scabbiest gangbanger I can find.”

“That’s good of you to say,” Harold says. He’s shuffling out of his pants, stiff-legged and oblivious. Naked, he is thin and pale and bony, skin ravaged by neat pink surgical scars, and Fusco feels an odd little pang of fondness before he forces himself to look Harold in the face and not stare at the scars. “Tell me if you get close; I’ll see if I can help.”

“I think I like this one, Lionel,” Reese says. “Don’t be afraid to speak up. I’ll do what I can from here.”

Fusco has about a second to wonder what the hell that’s supposed to mean before Harold’s mouth closes around him, tongue probing at the latex of the condom, and the sensation may be deadened, but this is still monstrously unfair. The noise he makes is low and broken and he can’t quite get the words out, when –

“Hey, Lionel,” Reese says, conversationally, “who’s that guy your ex-wife’s dating again?”

And just like that, he’s back from the brink. And he hates Reese now. Harold looks up, lips wet, asks, “Sorry, did you say something?”

“Just…” he swallows hard. “Maybe less tongue?”

Harold nods and it starts up again, this time smooth and slow and relentless, but there isn’t enough friction to tip him over, so Fusco’s fine with it, just fine, because all he has to do is maintain and keep himself under control enough that he doesn’t try to fuck Harold’s face.

He thinks maybe he could get close, after a while, but Reese is still talking.

“Have you seen your son lately?” he asks, sounding like he’s having way too much fun. “Do you think your dad’s disappointed in you? Hey, have I asked you to picture your grandmother yet, because you _definitely should_.” He pauses, gets himself together. “Sorry, this isn’t killing your erection, is it?”

Ordinarily, he’d be limp about twenty times over by now, but Harold keeps bringing him back, keeping him going and in the momentary silence, he makes an appreciative sound, so Reese knows he’s still together and so Harold knows he’s doing good.

“Okay,” Reese says. “But you speak up if you need me.”

Fusco’s going to try to beat the shit out of him later, but he has to admit that Reese probably just saved him, because now he’s in that zone he gets in with most clients, where he’s just pushing forward because it’s what he has to do and maybe he’ll wind up feeling good.

Then Harold makes a noise and Fusco can’t stop himself from looking.

He’s all hunched up between Fusco’s thighs, mouth on his dick and, nope, can’t look at that. Harold’s hands are underneath his body, working back and forth, and at first Fusco thinks he’s jerking off but then Fusco sees the bottle of lube resting on the bedspread and Finch pushes back, moaning around Fusco’s dick, and oh, _god_ , he’s fingering himself. Fusco bucks into his mouth just a little and Harold looks up at him, lifts his head. He sits up. His mouth is wet.

“Is it…would you mind if I…?” He inches forward, crawls over him until he’s on his hands and knees over Fusco’s body, hips in line with Fusco’s.

“Do it,” he says. “Do it, please.” He thinks he might mean that. He thinks that in the past three years, this is the only sex he’s come close to getting that he actually wanted. Harold settles back on him, easing his way down, and Fusco kicks, once, grunting hard, but he doesn’t come. Harold tilts his head at an angle, fixes Fusco with a concerned stare, but his hips begin to move.

Fusco distracts himself by worrying about the stiff, painful way he moves, the way he holds his back ramrod straight, and when Fusco asks, “You okay?” Harold snaps, “Fine,” and that’s the closest he comes to being anything other than shy and gentle.

So he starts to focus on the space where they meet, the little gaps where he can see himself disappear into Harold, the shuddering in Harold’s poor, weak thighs. Fusco thinks that maybe next time, he can convince Harold to lie down and let him do the fucking, let him take the strain. He wants that too, he realizes. He wants to take Harold’s control away, just for a second, and fuck him in a thorough kind of way. Not hard or rough, just until he’s very tired and not so worried. Fusco realizes he’s pushing into Harold too fast, in little, desperate jerks, and he pulls back, makes himself be smooth and slow.

“No,” Harold moans. He’s got his hands clenched on his thighs and his dick is deep red, bobbing gently with every thrust. “No, don’t.”

“Lionel,” Reese says. “You heard the man.”

Fusco whimpers, squeezing at the ropes.

“Simmons just texted to confirm his appointment tomorrow night,” Reese says.

Fusco sighs as the edge recedes, frowns to himself, starts to pick up a faster rhythm. He makes himself look at Harold’s face. His glasses are misted, his cheeks are pink and there’s this tension, this desperation to him, like he’s trying so hard to stay cool and collected when all he wants to do is fall apart. Fusco can take him there. He can do that. His hands are tied, so he can’t finish him off in the usual way, but he can push up into Harold, watch his face, watch for the things that make Harold screw his eyes shut and bite his lip. He can make noise for him, gasping and moaning and pleading. He can have this perfect set of thrusts where he manages to hit Harold’s prostate three times in a row and then whisper, “I want you to touch yourself,” and Harold does it, but he barely lays a finger on himself before he’s coming across Fusco’s belly with a sharp yell.

Only then, as Harold sits there, muscles contracting uncontrollably, does Fusco come. He doesn’t make a production out of it. Just a shiver and a soft, satisfied groan and a sudden, spastic kick of his legs, and it’s done. But Harold knows what happened, and Harold falls forward and kisses him on the mouth while the last pulses fade.

Fusco sucks at his tongue, which tastes like mint and latex, until Harold slowly, gradually, pulls away. His eyes are wide. “Sorry,” he says. “I hate to ask. Are you…?”

“I’m clean,” Fusco says, still breathing heavy. “Or, I was when I got checked out at the clinic last week. I go a lot.”

“That’s good,” Harold says. “That’s very conscientious of you.” Fusco can actually see him making the note in his head: call doctor, make appointment.

“Kissing’s extra, though,” Fusco says. “I won’t charge you for that one, since you didn’t know, but…”

“Oh, of course,” Harold says, looking just a little embarrassed. “No, don’t be ridiculous.” He climbs off of Fusco and they both groan as they separate. Harold sits down on the edge of the bed and retrieves his pants, starts going through the pockets. “How much?”

“Twenty bucks a kiss,” Fusco tells him. Harold turns, raises an eyebrow. “It’s a lot, I know, but I usually don’t like to do it, so I aim high so they won’t bother paying for it.”

“ _Thirty_ , Lionel,” Reese snaps. “And this isn’t My Life as a Call Girl. Shut up about the depressing shit.”

Fusco didn’t forget about the price and he can tell Harold is faintly moved by the depressing shit.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His fingers are stuck in his wallet. “I should have asked.”

Fusco shrugs against the ropes. “Nah, don’t be. You’re alright. That’s why I said ‘usually.’”

Harold smiles at him, shyly. “I should untie you.”

His fingers are quick and clever on the ropes around his wrists, and soon Fusco’s sitting up, rubbing to get his circulation going, wondering if that just cracked the knot in his back he’s been wrestling with for the past couple of days.

“How is it?” Harold asks, anxiously, as he tugs at the rope around his ankle.

“Good.” Fusco’s actually surprised. “Just some pins and needles. I thought that would be worse.” He goes to work on his other ankle and soon he’s freed, moving like normal. A little stiff, maybe, but no worse for the wear. Harold picks up his wallet again and presses a rolled up hundred dollar bill into his palm. “Uh. That’s too much. I can’t accept thi-” and then Harold is kissing him again, hands cupping his face.

This is a long one, kind of slow and tender and Fusco’s willing to let this ride, because he hasn’t been kissed for a very long time and Harold’s good at it. He eases up, whispers, “Two,” gives him a little peck on the cheek and whispers, “Three,” presses his face to Fusco’s throat and nips like Reese must have told him to and doesn’t stop until Fusco makes a jagged, small sound. “Four,” Harold says against his ear, and then, “I’d like to see you again.”

Fusco swallows, waits for his voice to come back. “I’d like that, Harold,” he says. His voice is scratchy and destroyed. Harold is very close to him still, and he tries putting his arms around him, but Harold pulls away.  Harold sits down on the edge of the bed and Fusco follows, moves to sit beside him.

Harold asks, as he puts his underwear on, “Do I make arrangements with you or Mr. Reese?”

Fusco kind of wants to laugh at anyone calling Reese ‘mister,’ but he says, “Reese. He knows my schedule better than I do.”

“Fantastic.” He claps his hands together once, looks down at his knees, nervously. “Would it be an imposition to ask if you’d stay the night? Not for…just, to stay. I’d like to know you better.”

He pretends to think about it while he waits for Reese to respond. “Not for nothing,” Reese says. “It sets a bad precedent and you’ve got a paying client in three hours. Remember? Night Shift.”

Fusco winces. He doesn’t like Night Shift. Night Shift bites. “I can’t,” he says. “I have another appointment. And my day job in the morning. I’m sorry. I’d like to know you better too.” He tries to look hopeful. “Next time?”

Harold tries to mask his disappointment and fails. “Next time,” he agrees.

He watches on and off as Fusco gets dressed, asks him if he wants to use the shower, and much as Fusco would love to give that thing a whirl, he can’t because his next one is in a shitty motel on the other side of the city and he has to get going now. He picks himself up, puts his shoes back on, puts the hundred in his pocket and stands unsure for a moment. “You only kissed me four times,” he says.

Harold’s face is impassive again. “Then that’s one you owe me.”

He grins. “Thanks, Harold. I had fun.”

“I’m sure,” he says. He doesn’t quite look when Fusco says goodbye.

 

4.

In the lobby, Fusco finds Reese slumped in a chair and says, “I think I blew it.”

Reese shakes his head, stands. “It wasn’t you,” he says. “You did great. If he backs out, it’s because he’s not cut out for this kind of thing. Some guys aren’t.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“So,” Reese begins as they make for the doors, “what number did you come up with?”

“Oh.” Fusco shrugs. “I kind of forgot about that. Ballpark guess: two thousand?”

Reese shakes his head. “You have no imagination, Lionel.” He leans over, whispers in his ear, and Fusco needs to be held up because his knees get weak.

“What?”

“See, this is why I didn’t tell you,” says Reese, smirking away as he supports Fusco in a half-hug. “I knew you’d go to pieces.”

“Jesus Christ,” he says shakily, pushing Reese’s coat open, digging a cigarette out of his pocket. “He could have bought my kidneys for that.”

“He could have bought _our_ kidneys for that,” Reese says. “You glad you did it?”

“Yeah,” Fusco says, standing up on his own and walking with Reese towards the glittering night outside. “Yeah, I am.”

 

5.

Fusco fiddles with the bandage on his wrist from his party with stringy-haired, strung-out Night Shift the evening previous and tries to focus on what Carter’s saying.

“I just don’t understand where this guy’s getting his money,” she says. “I’m tracing payments back to dummy corporations, private gifts from shady characters, insider trading, but there’s nowhere near enough to finance the kind of operation Elias is running. I…hey, Fusco. You with me?”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “Sorry. Rough night.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fusco, we’ve been working together for how long?”

“I transferred about four months ago.”

“Right. Now let me tell you something. In those four months, I don’t think you’ve ever had a single night that wasn’t rough. What the hell are you doing with yourself?”

“Second job,” he says. “Just. You know. The night shift.”


End file.
